


And Sigh My Soul Away

by FairyQueen (etoilecourageuse)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Background Character Death, Background Relationships, Canon Divergence - Red Wedding, Canonical Character Death, Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Illnesses, Major Illness, Red Wedding, Revenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 05:22:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4653921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/etoilecourageuse/pseuds/FairyQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She will not live through the fortnight, they say, but when the word of the massacre at her brother’s wedding reaches Riverrun, Catelyn Stark vows never to surrender.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And Sigh My Soul Away

The fever had befallen her after nightfall, quickly, mercilessly, had taken any strength from her at a stride and caused her to stumble, to collapse unconscious into her uncle’s arms mere seconds after rising from the table, her gown sticking to her body as though it were a second skin despite her shivers. 

She would not live to see dawn, they said, as they carried her to her chamber and called for the maester, only slowly realising what had happened, whispering that it was the grief that had brought such sudden illness upon her, the loss of husband and children, the war. To sustain such endless sorrow, such agony, to never lose her face… It had seemed sheer impossible and yet she had had no other choice than to face the tragedies with her head held high, to never surrender, never cease to breathe and to remain strong, as it was her duty. She had always fulfilled her duty… But Lady Catelyn Stark had been strong for too long, had been forced to endure too much, had suffered too much and eventually broken down beneath the burden of her strength, the burden of grief, no longer capable of holding on. 

She would not live to see dawn, they said, the concern written upon their faces. She would not live to see dawn… The milk of the poppy would release her quickly from her pain, would quickly allow her to find peace in her sleep, and perhaps also in death, reunited at last with those she missed so beyond belief, relieved from any trouble of the living.

She would not live to see dawn, they said, yet she had woken days after, her body trembling in agony and fever. Catelyn had awoken and fallen into a restless sleep once more, merely to wake what appeared to be hours after, scarcely capable of opening her eyes, her lids too heavy, her mind too weary, too fatigued. Perhaps even to die, perhaps even to leave this world of such cruelty was a privilege, a privilege the Seven were not yet willing to grant her. Hadn’t her lord father, too, suffered for too long until he had been released at last? 

The agony seemed to go beyond her endurance, the terrible burning sensation within her chest, her head, her limbs… But what other choice did she have than to endure, to endure as she had always endured, what other choice did she have than to fight against the fever if she was truly denied death, to go into battle in a war so different to her son’s, so different to anything she had ever known? 

Each night Robb would come to sit by her side, would silently open her chamber’s heavy wooden door and nearly look like a man grown in the dim light of the candles as he walked towards her, his steps resembling Ned’s in a way that took her breath away. Ned… Would he recognise her, would he wait for her? Would her children wait for her? 

Robb… He spoke to her, believing her to be asleep, would quietly tell her of council gatherings and strategies as though to repeat them for no one but himself, would, in moments he realised that she was awake, attempt to give her hope, strength, his voice fading with every word as the fright took hold of him. Her sweet boy… How overwhelmed he seemed at times, how childlike still and yet how much he had grown. To lose his father, his siblings, to fight in such a despairing war… It was enough. He had gone through enough, should not be forced to watch his mother’s life slowly fade, too, to watch her wither away… 

Wasn’t she supposed to give him strength, to offer advice and to comfort him in such rare moments of weakness? Wasn’t she supposed to be fully mother to him, and not to burthen him even further? Wasn’t it her duty? 

How desperate she was for relief, reaching out for Death yet never finding hold, how desperate she was… But she would live. Catelyn would live, would live only for her son and regain her strength despite the maester’s words of doubt. She would live, would not leave Robb’s side until he emerged from this war, victorious. She would live… She would live, and never again abandon another one of her children. 

“We are riding for the Twins on the morrow,” said Robb so suddenly that for a moment she held her breath, startled by his voice and his touch as he placed a strong yet tender hand upon her fevered brow. “Uncle Edmure’s wedding is merely a fortnight away; he refuses to speak about your illness, but I know that his greatest wish is for you to come with us. And I desire the same.”

The wedding. Her brother’s wedding… Had she truly forgotten, had her memory truly failed her? Her brother’s wedding… Catelyn wanted to speak, wanted so despairingly to respond but no words would pass her lips, merely a quiet moan of agony. When had she last spoken? When had she last risen from her bed, would the chamber in which she had spent her girlhood become the chamber of her death? Would she… 

It seemed painful even to remember, even to raise her trembling hand to reach for her son’s. Her hand… It looked so much like a crone’s, no longer tender and graceful, no longer soft as it still bore the scars of the biting steel that had so deeply cut into her flesh countless nights ago, when for the second time she had nearly lost Bran. Bran, her son, tormented and… Catelyn dared not finish her thought. Bran… How gladly she had taken the wounds for him then, how gladly she would take anything for her children… It had been mere days before she had left Winterfell, unaware of the consequences, unaware that she would never return to her youngest boys. If only she had known… If only she had… 

“I’ve come to say good-bye, Mother,” murmured Robb, once again sounding so much like the little boy he had once been in what nearly felt like a life long past. “You will be safe here in Riverrun. I promise.”

A single tear fell from his eye and onto her cheek as he bent his body to place a kiss upon her forehead, as he rose so slowly, turned away so reluctantly… The unspoken words lingered over them like a shadow; the fear seemed to consume them both. Fear… Fear that she were to leave before his return, fear that… But she would live. She had vowed that she would live for him, her boy… He would return in less than a month, so soon… And yet she feared.

Had Catelyn refused the milk of the poppy for so long, this night she would silently ask the maester for relief, would gladly swallow the liquid and give herself to sleep, as only then her concerns would fade, as only then the agony would seem tolerable. 

When she awoke, she found the strength to sit. 

No one would be granted to see her but the maester, whose words were sparse yet kind and soothing, as he had known her since her infant days, the maester, who so patiently watched over her as so slowly she regained her speech, as well as the ability to stand and to walk yet never without assistance, never for longer than a brief moment as then she would grow weary and nearly fall, her legs no longer capable of carrying her. 

“Has there been notice of Robb?” Catelyn would ask on occasion, quietly, hoarsely, as it still pained her to speak, would lean heavily against her cushions and look closely at the master, watching his expression change so suddenly. 

“None, my lady,” he would respond, eyes lowered as though to avoid her gaze. As though he knew something he didn’t want to speak… No. Impossible. Certainly it was the fever attempting to fool her mind, her imagination and her worries tormenting her… Certainly she was mistaken. 

“I assume that Lord Frey has extended his hospitality,” the maester added to his words one day, nearly absently as his fingers gently crossed her wrist. “It is not an uncommon thing to do at weddings.”

“Walder Frey is not known for his hospitality. I am no fool, Maester, and I demand of you not to treat me as such, neither to keep secrets from me. Tell me any news you have heard of my son.”

“Lady Stark, you are too weak-…”

“This was not a request.”

Catelyn had long ago learned to read a man’s expression. She trembled as the maester reached into his pocket, trembled still as slowly, heavily, he unfolded the message, giving a deep sigh as he handed it to her, still reluctantly. She had long ago learned to read a man’s expression, had long before forbidden herself to foolishly hope for the good in times of war, and to assume. Robb… Her boy... Her hands had scarcely touched the parchment when she knew, knew that he would never again visit her chamber, that she would never again hear the sound of his voice resounding within the walls… She knew. Yet as her eyes flew over the words, all life seemed to drain from her at a stride. As her eyes flew over the words, darkness came for her, came to consume her fully, truly, came to consume her heart, her body… And she would gladly give in.

*

Vengeance.

It felt as though she were no longer capable of breathing. It felt as though she had lost her senses, as though she were blind, numb… It felt as though she had lost her life in the moment she began to realise. If only the fever had taken her… If only she had surrendered. 

Vengeance. 

The maester spoke to her and yet she could not hear, refused to hear, refused to understand. Had he not bound her to her bed, as though he were afraid for her, Catelyn would have long opened the windows and thrown herself into the Trident, would have ended it all by giving herself to the water, laughing, laughing so full of relief that at last she were to claim, to take what the Gods had denied her for too long. She would have long thrown herself into the Trident… 

Vengeance. 

The darkness had faded, her efforts had been in vain; Catelyn had awoken once more, to find the world around her blurred, the daylight burning in her weary eyes. She had not wept, had not allowed herself to shed tears in the maester’s presence, had not wept until long past nightfall as she forced herself to rise and to step to the window, as she found moon and water coloured red. 

Vengeance. Vengeance… They would burn. Those who had murdered her children, her husband, those who had betrayed them, torn her family apart would burn, would suffer in the same way they had caused her to suffer, tormented her… They would burn. Catelyn would never allow herself to rest until she had taken revenge at last, until she found herself capable of looking into the sky to see the traitors’ heads on spikes. She would not rest… What had she to lose now, now that it all seemed over? Now that Robb… Her sweet boy… What they had done to him… They would burn, and she would devour their screams, laughing as she watched. 

Robb. Catelyn dared not remember the words the message had borne, dared not close her eyes and imagine… She gasped, gasped so desperately for air where none could be given, nearly choked as heavy, dry sobs came emerging from her throat, so full of despair, so full of agony. She should have been with him. She should have been with him, should have been with her son! 

How could they have been so foolish? Hadn’t she warned them, hadn’t she warned them all not to trust Walder Frey, hadn’t she…? How could they have been so foolish! How could _she_ … Lost. She had lost them all. Only Sansa was left now, her little girl who, too, was so cruelly bereft of her precious childhood, who was held hostage by the queen, battered and tormented, never to escape, never to see her family again. Sansa… 

She would save her. She would protect her and not fail, would not fail as she had failed to protect her other children. Catelyn closed her eyes and began to whisper, began to whisper quiet words, a sacred oath to never surrender, to never find and never yearn for peace until she found her enemies’ blood sticking to her hands, until she were to enfold her daughter in her arms once again, her girl, her everything. 

Vengeance. 

Dawn had not yet broken as she left the walls of Riverrun behind, her body weak yet her step determined, never turning her head, never looking back. Her home had long ceased to be her home, seemed so strange to her, so cold. Home… There was no such place as home, not any longer, not any more. Catelyn Stark had become a foreigner to the world, a foreigner to everything. The traitors would burn. They all would burn, as her tormented mind would never forget, her shattered heart never forgive. They would burn. 

Vengeance.


End file.
